


The Warrior's Tale

by MirkwoodCheshire



Series: The Battle and its Warriors [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 02:13:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirkwoodCheshire/pseuds/MirkwoodCheshire
Summary: The Battle of the Five Armies, from the point of view of a young Elven Warrior.





	The Warrior's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my reader insert Stranger Things Have Happened Here, the result of being told to write fanfiction in class.

It has been a long night in the oddly peaceful ruins of Dale. I am Arkadya, an archer in Elvenking Thranduil's army, with my brother Alaxinor. Tomorrow, the Bowman would speak with the King under the Mountain. Smaug is dead, destroyed, curled in an eternal sleep among the ruins of Laketown, below the chilling, icy water of the Lake. But now another guards the treasure of Erebor with the same jealousy and hatred as the great Dragon. Thorin Oakenshield. Even the small Hobbit runs from him now, betrayed his trust from fear of what he has become. The Arkenstone is now in the possession of the Elvenking and the mortal Bowman. Perhaps they could reason, could prevent this senseless war over lumps of metal. How could something be worth so much, that towns should be destroyed and war be fought, yet have such little purpose? Gold is soft, no good for weapons of war nor practical use. Diamonds are pretty, and strong, but no blade can be forged from them unless they are of unusually large size. Silver has some use, but the contents of that mountain is not such- instead it is useless metals and stones. Sentimental value, that is why the Elvenking was going to war over small jewels. But what sentimental value does all that treasure have to Thorin son of Thrain? 

When I wake in the morning, it is only just light, yet the ruined city is bustling. The folk of Laketown are preparing to fight or to flee, the Elven warriors finishing sharpening their blades, polishing their armour and other such preparations. The Bowman, Bard, stands near Thranduil, bidding his children goodbye, Mithrandir of the Istari also, looking to be attempting to reason with the two. The being known by man as Gandalf the Grey, an ancient one of five Istari on Middle Earth- the White, the Brown and the two Blues. I check my last braid, tying it with a small strip of leather, and began to put on my armour. The elaborate pieces of metal click into place, secured with leather that I just managed to tie, and other pieces of metal carefully fashioned to hold together. I tie my quiver to my back, and string my bow. Alaxinor is standing beside me, securing his own armour- lighter than mine, for he fights in the front line with a blade, but also more protective. His sword is one that has been in our family for generations, made of Dwarvish mithril. He is skilled with his blade, but neither of us have seen greater battles than the occasional border skirmish and the fights with the creatures of Darkness in the forest. As we finish putting on our armour, joining the ranks of the army and marching towards Erebor, he fiddles with the hilt. I check my bow once more before we begin to march.

 

A shadow comes over us as another army approaches, a Dwarven army, near equal in size to ours. Their leader, Dáin, greets Thranduil with mocking politeness, making small talk as if a war is not near. But then another sound meets our ears, one of another army- an army of darkness. And so as the Dwarves wheel round to meet them, we prepare ourselves to fight beside lifelong enemies. I can just see Alaxinor as I draw my bow, shooting into the fray. As time wears on, many begin making for Dale. I follow, trying to spot my brother, a friend, the Elvenking- anyone I know- but it is chaos, and if I pass a companion, I do not recognise them. Even the golden armour of our people is becoming harder to see under the mud as we scramble into the city in hopes of gaining higher ground, but no refuge is to be found in the ruins. The peaceful city of the night is replaced with chaos. News passes from ally to ally, news that I catch upon passing two mortal woman tending to a wounded Man, of another army, one greater than the opponents we face now. And now it approaches, to face off against our already weary and dwindling army of Elves and Dwarves and Men, enemies forced to fight as allies.

The sky fills with screeches, not of horror but triumph, not human but beast- bird, not beast. A figure, falling through the air, shifting and transforming to a great, black bear, landing on four great clawed paws, snapping and snarling. Eagles, filling the sky, swooping through the army, snapping at the Orc army and snatching them away, tossing them off cliffs and into sharp spears of rock. My quiver is empty, empty thrice over for when I refilled it, whether salvaging them from the ground and from corpses, unrecognisable as to whether they were once friend or foe, or taken from the rapidly dwindling armoury, if it can even be called that. Twice I have been struck, and I know I am lucky, for so many of my companions lay slain. A shallow wound is on my arm, made slightly worse by the constant drawing of my bow, and when my arrows ran out, the swinging of my blade. The other is on my leg and side, also small, but painful. It hurts when I run, or it should, but adrenaline kills the pain for the time being. I head for the highest point- Alax is strategic, and would make for a place where he could defend himself easily. It is something our Ada taught us when we trained, using your surroundings to your advantage.

As I pass another crumbling wall, I see an Elvish body, lying motionless on the ground- a friend of mine, Aeril, a blade in her stomach- by Valar, I hate this. War is so pointless, yet without it, we would not appreciate peace. Another nearby, and another- there is no end to the loss. But I keep going, for nothing is to be done for the dead, only for the living. Dodging through the ruins, slashing at the occasional remaining Orc, I run for the top of the city. I can hear my name being called, and it is a great relief, for the voice is distinctly Alax’s.  
“Arkadya!” I can trace it to the remains of the marketplace.  
“Alaxinor!” He responds, and finally we find each other, thank the Valar. His arm looks broken, and he is limping, much worse than me. As I run to support him, I see that his sword is broken near the hilt, a small price to pay, but a hysterical laugh nearly escapes me when I think of our blacksmith, Hannui, and his complaints at having to fix yet another of our swords. At least I did not break mine. Alax smiles, but he is exhausted as I help him to to a wall where we have a clear view- not south over the Lake, nor north, back towards Erebor, but west, towards the halls of Mirkwood, towards home, where all is safe and at peace- or, for the time being.


End file.
